


Luck needs to be reigned in, sometimes

by carefulfleshgnawer



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm, komaeda's eerie additude to life, mentions of illnesses, this might be kinda spoiler-ish maybe hha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulfleshgnawer/pseuds/carefulfleshgnawer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A somewhat destructive Komaeda and an almost-intervention.<br/>Really, now, it kinda seriously hurts.<br/>Why did you have to be so kind and I - so devoted?</p><p>(no romantic relationships!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luck needs to be reigned in, sometimes

The room is still incredibly dark. Just the barest stretch of dawn enters through the wooden bars on windows. A strange décor for a strange place. But Komaeda has been awake for long now. Or, he just never really fell asleep. He can only remember how he has been watching that strip of light on the floor, not how he came to be sitting, not how he noticed it in the first place.

It`s hard telling where dreams and nightmares and and where awakeness starts for him. Both seem so alike, sometimes.

When the light hits the table, a switch in his mind flips and he stands up, spine creaking, joints popping. He can barely hear his own footsteps, soft thumps against the cool wooden floor, leading up to the wall with the mirror. His bare chest moves with soft breathing, and he stares himself down. His eyes look shades darker in this lighting, no longer a light and clear pale yellowish green colour, but rather a shade of grey that seems to devour light with a black warped hole in the middle for a pupil.

           "I`m going to rip you to shreds."

He says, to his own reflection, and, through it, to himself. Then comes the razor from the pocket of his jacket, which lays draped over a nearby chair.

In between red lines, he draws, yes, draws more. More and more red lines and there are so many there, it`s almost as if they blur together, into a solid maroon mass on his arms, his legs, his sides, chest.  Some even crawl up the corners of his neck. Like an angry, agitated constellation. Perched there, on his grey-white skin. They're not deep, just barely grazing through the top layers of his skin.  Specks of blood like specks of dust. Barely even scratches.

But god, do they sting after a while. That`s exactly why he does it. It`s nothing like killing himself. He can't die like that, after all, _he thinks_. He was built differently from all creation, after all, _he thinks_. He was something lower, more primitive, after all, **_he thinks_**. Oh, he thinks and thinks and thinks and it stings and stings and stings. Not just at his skin, at his eyes, at his weak little heart and at his weak little mind, at his worthless empty little soul.

It`s like he has an open blood circulatory system, same as a bug. A lousy snail. And the blood, the cold blood, slides sluggishly against his bones as it makes way. Stops at the ends of his limbs, evaporates from his fingertips and he leaves traces of himself wherever he touches. Metal where he drags his skin, maroon where he barely touches. But it`s okay because his heart takes all the emotions, all the real smiles and the emotional pain and the relief and the stress and it turns them to blood and the cycle continues as that, leaving him empty, so empty. It`s difficult to feel what your heart recycles your very mind constantly.

( _oh, you liar you liar you liar_ )

It`s the sickness, actually, and he knows that. He was aware of it even before he made up the delusion. But damn, is he bad at lying to himself. He can't even firmly lead himself to believe in this in a way that leaves no words at the back of his head, no truth in his being, just a lie to live by. It comes from the acceptances of the past, the bad luck and the blood and bruises and harsh words. He can see it, as it is. Always, he can. It`s a kind of perception that would be so useful for others, betters. But here he is, trash. Extremely perceptive, but still trash.

And, to mirror the hopeless (he can only ever admit this in his mind) cruelty of the outside, he is cruel inside as well. Strict. Lawful. Merciless, against his own mistakes. Consciously ignorant of his own needs. He deserves it, yes. Every single moment of it, until something akin to hope will come and  
kill  
him.

(he hopes it will hurt)

At some point he stops and tucks the razor back into the jacket draped over the chair. Then he studies himself, his marks, his handiwork, in the mirror, which is as tall as he is and without a single smudge. Maybe, just to spite it, he wipes his lower arm against it. Little pink lines right in level with his eyes and the rhyme in it as it rings in his mind is what makes him smile.

Oh no, he has ruined something spotless, again! What sadness, what devastation!

(oh, he`s laughing, howling with an empty mirth oh god, it`s not even funny but he cannot stop the manic chortles of voice and giggle that slip through him, it`s enough to make it hard to breathe and his eyes water)

And then, he stops. Ah, it`s not even funny, really, he gets it. He gets it. It`s just some unconscious part of him panicking at what he has become. Why won't it come up? Why won't he come back? As he was? So long ago? Still untwisted, still with potential.

It feels empty. The thought has his skin going cold, so he pulls on his shirt and jacket.They sit uncomfortably against his agitated skin and he sighs in contentment. This was fine. Absolutely fine.

A quick check-up at the mirror just as the morning announcement comes on. The lines barely peek out from beneath his sleeves and yoke. He wouldn't mind if they were visible. But he knows someone would get the wrong idea. He knows why other people put lines like that on themselves. He'd seen many of them and their miserable eyes and bandaged arms in the hallways when he'd had hospital appointments. Depression, being suicidal, anxiety, dysphoria and many other mental illnesses. He wasn`t like them, not really. He had peace of mind and acceptance. And his only diseases had ever been neurological, not mental!, and, well, he isn't sure what kind of illness lymphoma was, but that too.

Really, he was quite well off. Just morbidly fascinated. Ah, what was that thing they said sometimes, “get your head out of the gutter”?

“get your head out of the morgue” might be more appropriate in his case. Nothing wrong with different interests. (except when it nags in his head that he is not right, that he`s missing something important, some kind of foot-stone, and where do humans begin building their soul, being? At which fundamental point happens the primal schism? The first splitting, first distance? Ah, such heavy questions, he can't be bothered to answer, not when the one asking is himself.)

He leaves the cottage. It`s always so light here. No matter how much time passes, it`s like he can not become accustomed to this. Well, the brightness makes it easier for him, so it`s fine...   
The daily ritual of going to the cafe, right. He sees no one on his way there, and, more surprisingly, no one there when he arrives. Ah, but he does smell something rotten. It`s always the smell that gives it away. He has to close his eyes and inhale, exhale.

The voices come back first. The voices of the other students, as they talk. Then he discerns them from the furniture and the food, and the smell of rot fades back into the back of his head until it will appear again.

This is fine, to be expected. His cognition plays tricks on him, distorts the view and the surrounding, and when it does, he can only breathe deep and wait for his senses come back to him. Well, it`s a bit annoying, but when one`s brain is going through atrophy, he can`t expect anything else. Dementia is a disease that swallows slowly, through years. And no amount of pills and no amount of doctors could stop it. (that`s why he stopped going to appointments - he understood what they did not!)

What Komaeda can't understand, though, is why suddenly it`s much worse. Missing memories, as Monobear had said, would explain it, but he said it was two or three years? It got this much worse in two or three years? Were there any other factors influencing it? What had happened?

The curiosity is suffocating.

Someone touches his back with a “Hey, move, won't you?” The voice is Hinata? Yes, undoubtedly. What does he mean, exactly?

“Come on, Komaeda, you're blocking the way.”

Ah, right, he still has not moved from the doorframe since he came here. Gracefully, he he removes himself from Hinata`s way as he turns to face the other boy. Hinata is staring right at this face and he seems to be concentrating very hard. Probably wondering something irrelevant. But he doesn't move, neither does the other and it`s an almost unnerving kind of stand-off. Something in Komaeda`s brain crawls. He speaks first.

“Ah, is anything the matter to _you_?”

“Not that I know of.” and his gaze drops a bit lower and there is a slight widening in his eyes that lets Komaeda know exactly what he noticed. “But, uh, is there anything the matter to you?” He mirrored the sentence, word for word. Komaeda smiles.

“Not at all.”

(he never imagined his stomach could drop like that)

Hinata doesn't seem to believe, but turns away nonetheless. It`s not like it`s logical to expect him to ask something.  Hinata didn't like (no, that`s not quite true, he just didn't understand) what Komaeda was, what he represented. And he would let him do as he wished, as long as no one else was harmed. See, that`s where the kindness of his justice ends. When it`s just one person. When it`s just Komaeda.

But, well, this was fine. Absolutely fine. He would have expected as much.

And then.. eating. And how odd it to realise a restaurant is for eating after standing in it for this long. Wow, he simply can not get on track today. He doesn't really like eating much in the mornings. Actually, he doesn't like eating much ever. But especially so on mornings. A piece of toast, an apple and water, all chewed thoughtfully while eyeing the other students. They're amazingly lively. To placate himself, he writes it off as a “hopeful” way of behaving.

But then, as his eyes travel from one to another, they suddenly are stared straight back into. Well, it`s unexpected, to say the least. Usually, his presence is so imposing they are actually startled when he speaks, as if they had not noticed him being there at all. But Hinata sees and is watching and has the concentrated look on his face again, and it`s as if Komaeda is is under an x-ray, insides showing.

(another stomach drop)

Just to throw the other off, he gives a wide smile and a wave of hand. Only then does the other seem to realize his staring has been noticed. He breaks eye contact.

But, this has got his curiosity running. He meanders over, footsteps mute, by the contours of the wall, as if barely in the room, as if he was a sneaking ghost, to Hinata. His presence is noticed even if Hinata pretends it is not, even if he`s trying very hard to keep facing away.

(and there`s been a similar situation before, some earlier time in his life. Ah, right, when the dog had died. Had been crunched right open by a car and Komaeda had dragged it all the way to the house, asking mommy and asking daddy to fix good old Taro, the black miniature pinscher. They`d been so shocked, him covered in blood and cradling the corpse`s head and crying and sobbing. The day after that, they had ignored him and whispered something between themselves, worried. When he had gotten tired of nagging them he'd went out, to the fresh grave and the wooden gravestone, sat down and talked to Taro. Dead Taro. And he had sworn the blood was still on him, still there. That had been a sad month, as it finally faded from his mind.)

But now Hinata is standing just like mommy just like daddy and he`s about to ask if Taro is going to come back.

Surprisingly, by some miscalculation, he actually does. A misplaced question to pierce the silence.

“Is Taro dead forever?”

Hinata`s head swings to look at him. There is confusion, as is rightful. Ah, _how awkward_.

“Tarot? You mean the cards?”

Surprisingly, he`d never seen the similarity. But now, he might come to terms with Taro`s death as a prediction of his following life. A shock, trying, a misunderstanding, fear, guilt, and finally, acceptance. The whole vicious cycle of luck.

“Now I do.”

“I see you still are creepy.”

“Tarot cards are used for seeing, right?”

“Seeing the future, yes.” 

Wow, how smoothly he was gliding out of that mishap. The misplaced question turns to a theme in conversation to fit Hinata`s perception of him.

“Well, I recently saw the present. I saw you as you were seeing me.”

“Yeah, that..” a strange shadow passes over Hinata`s face. He is desperately looking for something to change the subject with.

“But, tarot, what did you mean with it being dead forever? And what the fuck was ‘now i mean it like that’?”

“How is that important? Really, you should learn to discern what’s vital.”

Except he`s good at that and Komaeda is dancing around it, avoiding it. Hinata`s expression turns almost foul. He`d strung a nerve, he had.

“You are seriously a bastard.”

“Ah, yes, a trashy bastard! But a trashy bastard that is curious as to why you were looking at someone like him.”

“I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“You. The way you are constantly contradicting yourself.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“If you don`t tell me what I want to know, why should I tell you what you want to know?”

“Ah, good point..”

It could have ended there, had Hinata braces himself for this, for the encounter.

“Well, uh, the thing is..”

The pause is growing awfully long. Komaeda attempts to put the sentence back on track

“The thing is?”

“I don`t get you. You probably know that and bask in the fact or whatever. But, if by some chance, you are just as human as the rest of us, I`ll try my best to listen if you want to talk to me about something. Seriously.”

Aw, he _did_ care. But, wow, this hurt. In his heart, it hurt. In his throat, it caught. Something he could not comprehend, Hinata was offering to help! Help him? Help Komaeda?

“Haha, I`ll keep that in mind, though probably will not take up the offer.”

He`s almost proud of how calm his voice sounds - not a hitch, not a break.

“How do you know?”

The sharpness fades from Hinata's eyes. He looks like.. he`s pitying Komaeda. It`s too soft and too unnatural a look for Komaeda`s mind, it recoils. Ah, he needs something to respond with! But what?

“Someone like me, ah, I could not hope to sully your mind and waste your time.”

He hopes it will cause the usual annoyance, the anger and the push. He hopes it will make it stop feeling like he`s being examined, put together.

(oh, come on, I took so long to shatter!)

But, Hinata`s expression turns even softer, and there's panic in Komaedas chest, choking- choking! him and he needs to even the tables, needs to think of an insult, a phrase to ruin this, anything! Anything to stop this moment, but when Hinata places his hand on Komaeda`s shoulder and squeezes softly and, god, his hand is so warm and so kind, Komaeda loses his voice completely. All that remains is the fixed expression on his face, a too wide and too cheery smile. But his eyes do not smile, they are cold and confuses and then Hinata lets go and walks away

and it`s too late to get the hate back, for now.

Komaeda swallows once, twice. His eyes hurt. He leaves the restaurant, runs at full speed to his cabin and rips the door open strong enough to almost shatter the glass panes and, after entering, slams it closed just as hard.

He feels sick, he feels warm, this is wrong!

He needs to get this back into order. Hinata has to push him away. Damn it, he doesn't want that. _Damn it. **Damn it**_. Why had he caught him off guard like that? Why had he cared, _why bothered_? He had said himself that he was not sure if Komaeda was troubled. Left this to chance? And so easily, so _painfully_ , he had twisted something, some primitive urge for comfort and softness and attention.

And he starts crying, panic and guilt and fear and _he needs to set it straight_.

This would be considered good luck, after all. And he needs the good luck for other things, more important things. He needs it for plans and the success of them. For hope.

Ah, he can not let hope go.

No, _not even for Hinata_. Hinata, who actually _cares_ (or seems to). Hinata, who had been wonderful and justful and kind, even to him. Hinata, who had reached out, even through the layer of thick and pulsing distrust, placed there by Komaeda himself. Who had ripped Komaeda`s control to shreds, for who he was sobbing hoarsely.

But it hurts, _because he made this cage himself_!

So he decides. This once, he will let himself mourn. Let himself cry. Crying is supposed to make things easier. Then, he'll make Hinata hate him again.

And end this one good thing.

So he can continue playing slave for hope, so he can help them from under their shoes.

If it kills him quick, all the better, really.

(But maybe, this was fine. _Yeah, this was fine as well_.)

**Author's Note:**

> Ahaha.. I did research for dementia, but... it`s really hard to understand such complicated English, as is on the wikipedia page. I am not sure how accurately anything is portrayed.
> 
> feel free to critique or discuss!
> 
> thanks for reading ūoū


End file.
